The Nature Of Thoughts
by shockin'blueeyes
Summary: She was far from ordinary, even by mutant standards, and Charles kinda knew all along she could help them in more ways than anybody could have imagined. Post Cuba. Charles/OC
1. Flower Pot

I don't know much about the X-Men comics, so bear with me if I make any horrible errors regarding the original story. I'm basing this completely on the First Class movie.

Hope you like my story, and don't hesitate to review, please! (with a cherry on top?)

In this chapter you'll get a peek at what my OC's powers might be, next chapter you'll discover them for real.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: If I owned X-Men, I can assure you the beach scene would not have ended <strong>**the way it did.**

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><p><em><span>Chapter I: <span>_

'Honey, could you pass me that jar? I cannot reach it with my height, I'm afraid'

A short plump middle-aged woman stood beside her, her hand pointing to the top shelf.

A young girl looked up from where she was sitting writing in a large account book.

'Yes, of course' she said, and the short woman smiled sadly at the young girl.

'Honey, are you sure you feel well? Shouldn't you go see a doctor? You're always so pale and ill-looking!'

The young girl managed a smirk as she stood on her peeptoes and reached for the large conserve jar.

'Why, thank you Mrs. Dee, but I already told you I'm alright. I've just been a bit under the weather lately'

The woman scoffed.

'You've been under the weather for six months, dear, ever since you moved here. I think it's time you go see Doctor Marcus and ask him for a liniment or something!'

The young girl turned to hand the jar to the short woman, careful that her skin didn't touch hers.

'We're not in the eighteenth century, Mrs. Dee, they have vitamins now. And I already take them, don't worry' She replied before turning around and sitting again on the desk near the window.

Behind her, the short woman, Mrs. Dee, smiled sadly at her and left the small room, a mix between storage area and office.

The young girl looked indeed ill. Her skin was pasty, something very surprising giving that they were in the middle of the desert and the sun was blazing down at them every day, and her almond hair, held up in a ponytail, looked brittle and without life. Her eyes were an undefined colour, though by the light coming from the window, seemed almost green and they were surrounded by dark circles.

She tried to keep her eyes open, but the truth was that she was tired, her limbs ached and her mind was a bit fuzzy. She was already used to it though, and ignored it, reaching instead to her bag hanging from her chair and took a bottle of brightly coloured pills, swallowing two of them. It did nothing to make her feel better.

'Vitamins, yeah.' she scoffed quietly, looking at the label of the bottle.

She let the bottle and massaged her temples, willing the dull fuzziness to go away. It wasn't a headache, just the feeling she got when she was really tired. And she was really tired. All the time. Since she had moved there, her health had done nothing but worsen, and she knew she had to leave soon, if only for a little while, if she didn't want to die.

Maybe she should to a fair, or a shopping centre, or something, where there was a lot of people, but where she could leave immediately if needed be.

She thought of what had happened the last time she had been near a mass of people, and she shuddered.

Maybe it would be better instead if she just took a trip down to the natural reserve and camp there for a few days. That would suffice to get her energy back, until her health deteriorated again and she had to go camping again.

The young girl glanced at the window, where a solitary petunia was slowly dying under the intense sun. She looked back at the door briefly, before biting her lip and observing the plant.

What harm could it cause? After all, it was only a plant, right? It wasn't an animal, or something bigger, it should be easy enough to control.

She reached out and opened the window, picking up the flowerpot and putting it on the table. Then, slowly, very slowly, she reached out and touched the plant.

The bent stem of the flower immediately straightened itself, and the petals that moments ago were dried up and brownish started to grow, the dry parts replaced by pure white ones, without a spot. The sides of the stem started to grow too, and more flowers opened up, showing their bright white colour.

The young girl couldn't help but smile, looking at the result of her work, and she could feel her fingers getting a feeling of lightness she hadn't felt in a long time.

A noise outside the door made her jump on her seat, and she looked up from the flower to the door. A deep apprehension at being discovered filled her gut, fear making her heart beat wild and her head spin. What if someone had…

A few seconds passed until she realised the door was still closed and nobody had seen her little display of powers, and she looked back to the flower. What she saw made her immediately recoil, snatching her hand back and stifling a scream.

The flower, if you could still call it that, was now a greyish colour like mould, the petals sickly deformed into something she could not discern, and the stem completely dried up. From the corner of her eye she could see something that had escaped her vision before. A grotesque black thing was emerging from the soil of the pot, its slimy body making her think maybe it had been a worm, but it had horns like those of a beetle on its head. The thing twitched for a few seconds, and then was still.

The young girl pushed her chair back noisily against the hardwood floor, putting her hand on her mouth and getting up, looking around the room for something to cover her horrid creation. Her eyes fell on the bin beside the desk, and she snatched it up, throwing the flowerpot inside and exiting the room.

She rushed through the small convenience store, not bothering to even glance at the counter, where she knew Mrs. Dee would be looking at her, face full of concern.

'Are you alright, honey?'

The girl didn't answer until she reached the door.

'You were right, Mrs. Dee, I don't feel well at all. Do you mind if I take the rest of the day off?'

'Of course you can'

'Thank you Mrs. Dee' the girl said, before opening the door. Mrs. Dee frowned upon seeing her distressed face and called out to her.

'Valerie, do you want me to call Doctor-'

But Valerie Peterson had already left, hand on her mouth, trying to stop the bile on her stomach from rising up, and thrown the whole bin in the nearby dumpster.

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><p>Sooo, did you like it? Next chapter will hopefully shed more light over her <em>groovy<em> mutation, and the rest of the cast will appear. I haven't yet decided if I'm gonna make more OCs in this fic, or just leave her alone with the boys. What do you think?

Your opinions are very important to me!


	2. Knock Knock

Sorry for the long wait, exams got in the way, and I have literally just finished them.

Thanks to all of you who reviewed, and keep the reviews coming, please! I like to know I'm not writing for a brick wall.

Hopefully this chapter will be longer, and from now on I'll try to make them even longer.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: Don'towndon'towndon'town<strong>

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><p><em><span>Chapter II:<span>_

_Knock. Knock._

Valerie turned around in her bed, trying to block out the morning sunlight that came through her window, and buried her head under the pillow, kicking the sheets to the foot of the bed.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

She reached out a hand towards her bedside table, cursing silently for not turning off the alarm on her day off, but her hand stopped midway.

Her alarm had broken a week ago.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

She jumped up from the bed, pillow falling to the floor beside her, and she tried to advance towards the door of her tiny bedroom, but her vision swam in and out of focus, and she grabbed the doorframe to prevent her from falling over. Damn the pathetic weakness, and damn her for being so stupid as to aggravate it. What had she been thinking the day before, when she had decided to heal the petunia? She had been weak enough as it was, and now she was worse, and had had to call Mrs. Dee just before going to bed to tell her she would not be able to work today.

She had been planning on sleeping all day, trying to get a little energy back, but somebody had to go and wake her at…five in the afternoon. She stood there stunned for a second, not quite believing she had been asleep for twenty hours. She felt as if she had hardly slept two hours.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

'I'm coming, I'm coming!' she shouted, her voice slightly raspy.

She trudged towards the front door, crossing the small room that served both as kitchen and a living room, trailing her hand on the back of the sofa for support, not entirely trusting her legs. She wanted to scream in frustration at her current situation, always so tired, so ill, so weak, but she knew she got what she deserved, and it was better this than being a danger to everybody every single second. If anybody had to suffer, it better be her than someone else.

As she walked towards the door, she wondered who it could be. Probably Mrs. Dee, coming to check up on her, or maybe it was the postman. But what postman came by at five in the afternoon? Or it could be the police… she shuddered involuntarily, and looked around the room, hoping to find something that could be used as a weapon, before she remembered policemen usually had guns with them, and so it was stupid to try and fight back.

She arrived at the door, fumbling a few seconds more than normal with the locks before she swung the door open, praying that it was Mrs. Dee with a hot plate of broth.

But instead of the plump middle aged woman, before her were a young man in a wheelchair, and a little behind him, a blond teenager.

She swallowed hard. It was definitely not Mrs. Dee, and it wasn't either the lanky postman.

'Sorry to wake you up Miss Peter-' started the man in the wheelchair

How on earth did he know her name?

She started to close the door in their faces, but the man in the wheelchair extended his hand and caught the door.

'Miss Peterson, we are not the police. We just want to talk to-'

'If you aren't cops, then you're federals.' She blurted out, her panic growing by the second, not realizing she hadn't said anything about the police before the man spoke. She spared a glance at the teenage boy at the back, who looked back at her with a glint in his eye and a barely masked smirk. What an odd pair of federals they made. One paraplegic and the other that barely looked eighteen.

'We're not federal agents either' replied the blond boy.

She looked back at the one in the wheelchair, who still had his hand on her door, and saw that he was looking at her in a very odd way, as if he knew something she didn't. She didn't like it. She didn't like it one bit.

'What do you want?' she asked, hoping her voice came out as cold and angry.

'We just want to talk, Miss Peterson, really' the man in the wheelchair answered, and Valerie suddenly realised he had a British accent.

'What about?' she pressed. Just because they didn't look like government agents, and said they weren't, it didn't mean it was the truth.

'_Your gift'_

She blinked twice, looking at the man in front of her. She'd just heard his voice, but she could have sworn his lips hadn't moved.

'_We're here to talk about your gift, Miss Peterson'_

Okay, now his mouth had definitely not moved, but she could hear his voice. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Was she finally going off of her rocket? She gripped the door tighter, her breathing coming in quick breaths.

'Charles, she looks like she's going to burst a vessel'

'Miss Peterson, maybe it would be better if we did this inside' the British man, Charles, said, and she swallowed, but numbly stepped aside and let the blond guy wheel Charles in. She looked ahead at the road in front of her house, though her nearest neighbours where a couple of miles away and nobody ever passed through that road. She was in the middle of the desert, after all.

Valerie closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, before bolting upright again. How weird, she hadn't even wanted to open the door a few seconds ago. She looked at the men in front of her unsure of what to do. She took the easy road, the one that would buy her more time to try and figure out why they were here.

'I'm sorry, do you want anything to drink or eat…?' she asked, glancing briefly at the kitchen and thanking the heavens that the last time she'd eaten, yesterday morning, she had remembered to clean up.

The man in the wheelchair looked sharply at the blond guy, like he'd said something rude, but Blondie hadn't opened his mouth.

'A coke would be nice' he finally said, and she looked at the British man, _Charles_, she reminded herself.

'Tea?' she asked, and he rolled his eyes, but nodded anyway.

'Then just-' she almost said sit yourselves, but then quickly amended herself 'make yourselves comfortable, I'll be back in a minute'

She almost ran to the small kitchen, thankful for once that it was in a separate room from the living room, closing the door behind her. She opened and closed cupboards, trying to find the tea she had bought a million years ago, all the time praying that it wasn't expired. Tea didn't expire, right?

While she waited for the water to boil, she thought of the men who were currently sitting in her living room. What did the British guy mean by _gift_? She felt her breath shorten. Did he mean her power, the things she could do? How had he found out? What were they? They said they weren't feds or cops, but then, what were they? Reporters? Private Detectives? Scientists looking for her to do freak experiments?

And why in the hell had she heard the British guy's voice in her head?

She shook her head, grabbing the bag of tea she held in her hand more tightly. She had to get a grip on herself.

The kettle began to whistle, and she made to grab it, but froze midway. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the kitchen window, and she wanted to _die_. Her almond hair was all over the place, the bags under her eyes actually looked more like suitcases, and the clothes she was wearing were creased beyond recognition. Thank God she hadn't had the energy to put the old t-shirt and faded shorts she usually wore to bed last night, or she might very possibly have died of embarrassment when she had opened the door.

Still, she looked horrible.

As she poured the tea in the mug, she tried to flatten her hair and she tugged at her shirt, trying to smooth the creases.

Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the kitchen door and went back into the living room.

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